


The Past that Binds Me

by AceOfShipping



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, History - Fandom, History RLF
Genre: Depictions of Battle, Mention of Blood and Gore, Other, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, mention of wars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-06-12
Packaged: 2018-06-03 10:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6606766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceOfShipping/pseuds/AceOfShipping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former General and President George Washington has been in high alert ever since his days in the army begun. He has fought for his country, for his freedom, for himself. Liberty he has won. And harvested the rewards.</p><p>Now, less than a year after he stepped down as President, he finds himself haunted by memories of battles past, hunted by sudden attacks of fear and panic that he does not understand. Only, the new Housekeeper at Mount Vernon seems to recognize and understand his illness. Can she help him recover, or will the once-great Washington never stand tall again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

General George Washington had been a strong man, a decisive man, quick to take action and wise enough to take the right action.

President George Washington had been a strange title, and the man had had strength of a different sort. With a quick wit and a way with words, his will had shaped a country.

Mr. George Washington was different. He was quiet, did not do much any longer, found himself unable to uphold an active social life. 

How he had deteriorated so within merely a year was, to him, a mystery, but it had happened. He had stepped down from his post with grace, retired under great festivities, and found himself suddenly and abruptly in a dark hole from which he could not seem to get up.  
And then there was the matter of the attacks.

Nobody knew about those, save himself. He was often alone when they occurred, and there was usually something, a clap of thunder, a book falling to the floor, that reminded him of canon fire. Always canon fire…  
Sometimes they just came.

However, he didn’t want to think about that now. Right now, there was only the view from his beloved Mount Vernon, a magnificent view of the Potomac, glistening in the sharp early-autumn sun like liquid gold. Trees on the rolling hills of his land. Yellow grass, dried by the heat. Such was life now; the simple pleasures given to him by such a view were amongst the greatest that he had. He turned from the view with a sigh, which turned into a frown. In turn, that became wide-eyed panic.

A rush went through him, starting with an elevated heartbeat, and slowly spreading as his breath became uneven and rushed. It was a sensation that he knew only from the fields of war, but which had been haunting him in the form of these attacks for months.

First, his hands began shaking. Then his entire body. He momentarily lost control of his balance as his legs became weak, and halfway fell against the windowsill, managing to catch himself just in time. Images flashed past his eyes, blinding him with gunfire, scenes of battles past, the long dead and dying. Blood, blood, blood. An overwhelming scent, a sense of gunfire whizzing past him. He found himself looking around for an escape, unable to tell the difference between the familiarity of his library and the death fields of war.

He tried shaking his head to rid himself of the imagery, tried covering his eyes, but it wouldn’t stop. The shaking wouldn’t either, and his breathing was out of control no matter how hard he tried to calm it. It felt as though the room was closing in around him, the air disappearing until there was scarcely enough to breathe at all.

Washington didn’t hear the door open, nor did he see her enter the room or her worried expression when she closed the door behind her. He vaguely sensed the sound of hastening steps, and a pair of steady hands grasping his shoulders, leading him firmly to a chair where he sat, or, more likely, mindlessly fell to. It was not until a glass of something, whiskey, he noticed when he emptied it in one go, was pressed into his hand, that he realized who she was.

The new housekeep that Martha had hired less than a week ago to replace their former, Mrs. Allister, as she was headed for retirement. A young woman, no more than 25, by the name of Caroline O’Byrne. All this, of course, hardly mattered at that moment, as the distraction of the glass in his hand and the slight burn on the back of his tongue from the alcohol, slowly brought him back under control.

“Better, Mr. Washington?” O’Byrne’s voice was gentle, and her words were spoken almost agonizingly slowly. But perhaps that was why they managed to clear the remainder of the fog from his mind, dispelling the last remnant of his lack of control.

“Quite, thank you.” He managed to croak with a somewhat steady voice, attempting to sound dismissive, but quite failing. He knew that from the way she looked at him. She was still concerned. And he was still shaking just slightly.

“I imagine You’d ask how I know what’s ailing You, if You weren’t temporarily disabled?” She was keeping a respectful distance, not sitting down, not doing anything she shouldn’t be doing. There was no reason to deny the truth in her words. He was curious. Mostly because Washington didn’t know what it actually was himself. He nodded, the movement severely impaired by a sudden, more violent, shaking of his body. The glass almost fell out of his hand, and would have, if the shaking had lasted for longer than it did.

“I call it war sickness, sir. My father had it.” She held out a hand, offering to take his now empty glass. He let her, and she placed it next to the decanter, opting not to refill it. Even though he wouldn’t have minded another glass, rather the opposite, he could immediately see the sense of her actions. It was scarcely three in the afternoon. 

“I remember he used to have attacks like Yours, sir, the first one when my Ma dropped a jar, only, to cope with it… Well, that’s past now.” She offered a half-smile, but there was something about her eyes that told him that whatever had happened to her father, she would never forget it. It almost made him feel afraid, he readily admitted that to himself, for if her father had been a soldier and succumbed – what was the unspoken fate he had suffered?

“I had better return to my duties now, if You will be alright?” The question was careful, and Washington sensed genuine concern behind it. Although such a thing was hardly appropriate in the classical understanding of how servants and masters should relate to one another, he found that he didn’t mind. It was… a relief, to have someone he might call upon, who knew what he was going through. Particularly since he himself did not.

“I… will be fine, Miss O’Byrne.” He sounded less sure than he would have liked, but at the very least some of his strength had returned. He sat up properly in his chair, stretching his back. “Thank you.” That was definitely dismissive, and she obeyed the unspoken command with the same trained ease as a good lieutenant. She simply dipped her head, not bowing, and left the room with measured steps.

Washington was left feeling calm – calmer than he had for months, breathing freely. Sudden tremors still shook his body, but they were getting ever less noticeable, and soon enough, he knew, they would completely fade.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington and O'Byrne come to an arrangement, and a mutual understanding, about how to cope discreetly with his problems without raising a fuss.  
> A few things from O'Byrne's past are unraveled.

It was October before Washington had a chance to speak to O’Byrne again, mostly because they both adhered to the unspoken rule that servants were to be neither heard nor seen where their masters were concerned. Sometimes he caught a glimpse of her leaving a room as he entered, or heard the sound of steps. It was no different than it had always been, but he seemed to notice it more now for some reason.

He’d had an argument with Martha earlier that day. For the first time in years, he had shouted at her, and she had been so shocked she had simply retreated. Left him. Escaped. They hadn’t even spoken at dinner. He had felt that he ought to apologize to her, end this tension, but hadn’t been able to find words. He had been afraid of himself, of the anger coiling within him. It was so unfamiliar. Frightening. Like a stranger taking over his voice and his body, he had been unable to control himself. He didn’t dare speak to his wife for fear that he might lose control again.

Perhaps that was why he had chosen to stay up late, even after Martha had gone up to her room, in his study. He didn’t have any serious work, not anymore, just letters of curtesy to be answered, old friends enquiring as to his well-being, Franklin who was directly asking whether he had completely abandoned life altogether. And a few replies to careful enquiries that he had himself sent out to well-respected army doctors, about his symptoms. Never, of course, stating outright that he was the one suffering. Some had provided at last a little illumination on the issue, others had had as little knowledge as Washington himself.

That was, none.

He had actually wanted to discuss some of the replies with O’Byrne for a while. He supposed that he was just waiting for the right opportunity. He could, of course, have called for her, but what kind of signal would that send, now? An elderly gentleman and his young housekeep?  
Certainly not. He wasn’t Jefferson or Franklin, and he would have no rumors.

Anyhow, that was why he was staying up far later than he ought to, and he was, for the first time in his life, wondering how servants managed. They went to bed later than their masters, and rose earlier. Yet they never seemed to have days, as he did, where they were utterly wrecked by fatigue.  


“Mr. Washington?” Her voice made him turn around – he hadn’t even noticed that he had fallen deep in thought. “I’m sorry, sir.” She was immediately on her way out again, seemingly certain that she had been interrupting.

“No, please. Come in.” He gestured towards the chair before his desk out of old habit, realizing his mistake too late to amend it. Well. She probably needed to sit down, he just hoped it wouldn’t make her feel uncomfortable, “There is something I wish to discuss with you.”

Ah. She looked as though she was certain that she was going to be fired. Well, if he was firing her, he would probably have begun like this too, so she had good reason to be unsettled. She did astound him by being composed enough to not burst into a long line of apologetic phrases and excuses for small mistakes that she might or might not have made, though. She was utterly calm as she sat down.

He kept standing, walking to the side of his desk and picking up the only letter that had provided him with at least some insight. It was short and precise. He handed it to her without a word. Her eyes moved swiftly across the paper, revealing that she was a trained reader. When she finished, she looked up at him.

“So this is about that.” It was more of a relieved statement than a question. He nodded, and she exhaled with genuine relief, “You did have me worried for a moment there, sir.”

“Apologies. I did not mean for you to become unsettled.” Washington folded his hands behind his back and met her gaze attentively. There was a moment of silence before she spoke again.

“The Doctor calls it Soldier’s Heart. That seems appropriate.”

“Yes.”

“There is just one thing that I find myself puzzled by. You were at war a long time ago, sir.” She spoke rather hesitantly now, as though afraid that there was some line she might not want to cross, and moving tentatively to avoid crossing it. “The Presidency does not seem to compare to a battlefield, if You’ll forgive my boldness.”

Washington frowned. He had indeed considered that himself, wondered more like, and had come to a different conclusion. “The role of President is not as different from that of a General as one might think. The dangers are simply… different.” He wasn’t entirely sure how to put it himself, there was so much to this that he didn’t understand, and he wasn’t even sure whether his explanation applied at all. With no sure cause, or cure, there was no certain explanation either.

“Constant vigilance.”

“Beg your pardon?” Washington had only just heard her words, they had been spoken as a mumble, scarcely more than a stray thought, but they struck something within him. They rung true.

“It’s just… something my father used to say. That is, he used to say it whenever he was clear-minded enough to recognize me.” She seemed a quite uneasy about the situation, but evidently felt that it was necessary to say what she was saying, “He was rather worse than You are, sir.”

Washington wasn’t sure how to respond to that. He wanted to comfort her in some way, but he was uncertain how, and whether it would be appropriate. In the end, he settled with an awkward, “So I see.”

There was a long silence as she eyed him with sharp scrutinization.

“You’re upset.” The statement was unprofessionally sharp, and it astounded Washington to hear it come from her. True though it was, such a direct tone was hardly appropriate. But, he had to give it to her, it was the correct way to go about it. Directness.

“… Yes. I am.” He admitted, “I argued with my wife for the first time in years.” Oversharing, perhaps, but all things considered, she would probably have asked him. He might as well save her the trouble.

O’Byrne was quiet, clearly contemplating what to say. He could almost see the cogs whirring in her head as she tried to word a response that would be both concerned and appropriately formal. Evidently, that was no easy task.

“I am… sorry to hear that, sir.” She licked her lips, a quick movement that he, for some reason, noticed, “You see, my father became rather… violent at times, and he’d never been like that ‘til he came home.” Her words were very careful, but direct. He listened intently to her, finding that he liked her directness as well as the steady no-nonsense tone that she had. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely appropriate, but once again, he didn’t really find it in himself to care.

“And your father, how did he… cope?” Washington asked very carefully. It was a question that had been nagging him for quite a while, for reasons that he did not wish to acknowledge. Although he felt that he needed to ask, he wasn’t quite sure how she’d take it. After all, they were moving on very personal ground, and neither knew the other very well. She hesitated.

“He went to the bottle, sir. Never came back.” She sounded almost indifferent, but he could see her jaw clench and her eyes narrow just slightly as she frowned. She was fighting sorrow, battling herself to keep the grief from rising up and taking over her actions. The girl evidently had a strong aversion to weeping, it showed. He had seen it before. She was stronger, it would seem, than some soldiers.

“You are upset.” He stated, mirroring her though his voice was somewhat gentler, for whatever reason. He found that he cared.

“Yes. They’re not exactly pleasant memories, sir. With Your permission I’d like to change subject.” She was rubbing her right hand ring finger as she spoke, something Washington immediately assumed to be the sign that she was holding her emotions back. He nodded.

“I’ve been thinking… My father’s attacks usually had triggers, things falling down, loud noises, suchlike.” O’Byrne looked up at him, seemingly for confirmation that his did too. He nodded again. 

“I thought so. Anyhow, I was planning to rearrange my daily rounds to match your schedule. Try to keep the triggers to a minimum, and if something happens then…” She trailed off, seemingly unsure of whether she ought to finish that sentence, and how he’d respond if she did.

“Then you will be able to get to me.” He finished it for her. “Miss O’Byrne, I appreciate your assistance, and I recognize that it is needed.”  


She visibly relaxed at his words, but looked at him with concern. “You know, Mr. Washington, not to intrude but… perhaps You ought to brief Your wife as well?”

He had considered it. With a sigh he stood up, correcting his sleeves to do at least something with his hands and not have them hanging uselessly at his sides. “I can’t. Martha needs no more burdens from me, and –“, he stopped himself there. He didn’t have to explain himself, not to her. A contrariness was arising in him, and a beginning feeling of that… that anger, that horrible anger.

“I doubt that she would think of You as a burden, but I am not in Your position, and You know best.” O’Byrne’s voice was suddenly very soft, her demeanor far more subdued than it had been a moment ago. His anger subsided, leaving only a distinct feeling that she had been able to see it in his expression.

“If that was all, sir, I think I would urge You to sleep and get on with my duties myself.” She slowly stood up, the keys in her belt chiming. As housekeeper, she carried a copy of the key to each and every room in the house. It was a strangely calming sound, that chime. An epitome of home, as it were.

“That was all, you may go.” He answered, smiling gently to himself as she turned to leave. She was halfway to the door when he spoken again, “And I think I shall heed your advice.”

He couldn’t see her reaction, but he imagined her smiling as she left.


	3. Chapter three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington experiences his worst attack yet, and O'Byrne comes to his rescue. With his condition worsening, will the former President ever be able to overcome the battles of his past?  
> Or will the battle with his own mind overcome him in the present?

O’Byrne’s plan worked. The triggers ceased in their regularity, they stopped coming so often. The maids were quieter, if there was any loud work of any sort done, she was evidently making sure that it was not done close to him. For that, he was grateful. Still, while it helped to give him peace and keep him calm, he couldn’t completely keep the attacks at bay. They still came.

And he was having trouble with nightmares, too. They’d begun haunting him beyond anything he had ever tried before. He was tired beyond words, insomnia taking from him most of his nights, as he lay awake and listened to the echo of gunfire, a ghost conjured up by his tortured mind. He knew that he was no longer there, on the battlefield, his country was not at war, there were no canons firing over the green, green grass of home. Green grass which was, one morning, covered with a layer of pearly frost. It was a beautiful sight, or it would have been, if he did not have such dark memories of the cold and the harshness of winter. Back during the war, he had lost two and a half thousand people to the damned snow and ice, from hypothermia and sickness, and he had been certain that it spelled the end of the battle for liberty.

He would always associate winter with death.

It was a good thing that Martha was out of the house that week, visiting relations, for Washington was in a strange mood. Somewhere between grieving and contemplating, he found himself getting lost in thoughts that, afterwards, he could scarcely remember. He chose to keep to his library, not because he was in a particular mind to read, but because keeping one room warm was cheaper than trying to heat up the hallways. Washington had always been a pragmatic man. He prided himself on that. Lately, it had taken a rather extreme turn, but he felt more and more as though he needed it, as though it helped him be in control. And he needed to be in complete control. It made him safer. His surroundings became safer.

Washington found himself revisiting old reports, journals he had written long ago, written the names of all the men that he had commanded, those who had survived and those who had died. Somehow, he had kept track during those years, and supplemented his own records with the official ones, finding that his were by far the most complete.

Valley Forge, winter 1777/1778

He wasn’t entirely sure how he had come to pick out this particular volume, but there he was, standing with it in his hands. Carefully arranged and meticulously bound in leather, the papers of this journal bore evident signs of the strain that he had been under during that time. Ink blots, smears from melting ice running down from a hole in the roof, shaky writing because his hands had been cold and the ink close to freezing. In some places, when he had been gone or otherwise occupied, Lafayette’s handwriting took over for a day or two, until his own returned.

It was hardly pleasant reading.

Unlike some of his other journals, which spoke of victory, or at least of camaraderie, these were words of festering desperation and bitterness. Descriptions of waves of disease rushing through camp, typhoid amongst the artillerists, pneumonia in the cavalry, infantry struck by typhus. 

Perhaps the worst struggle in the entire war had been this winter, and the enemy had been something which they could not vanquish. Not like the English, they could bleed and die. Men were men, no matter the colors they wore.

Washington sighed and carefully put the volume back in its place. He couldn’t keep dwelling on that winter, over a decade ago, where he had nearly lost the future of America. He had pulled through, the army had pulled through, and they had been successful. He needn’t dwell on that.

Just as he turned around, trying to determine something else to cast his attention onto, there was a hollow clang, the sound of something being dropped on the floor in the room above him. Washington tensed, standing still and stiff as a board, his breath stuck in his throat. He could feel it coming. He could feel it crashing down on him. A rush of adrenaline, like missing a step on a staircase, followed by fear. Intense panic that spread through him like a wildfire, dread so tangible that it was almost like physical pain through his body, making him wince. The shaking began in his hands, but did not stop there.

It hit him.

His breath returned in gasps, his diaphragm cramping and allowing him only shallow breaths, pressing the air out of him so quickly that he could barely replenish it. He felt the room swimming as he grew light-headed, and the familiarity of his surroundings faded for a different scenery. It wasn’t real. He knew it wasn’t real –

A bullet whizzed past him, causing him to duck and fall to the ground – the floor, it was the floor, he tried to convince himself, even if the grass felt real – and the sound of cannon fire exploded around him, as he was showered with earth raised from the impact of cannonballs with the ground. He curled up, pulling his knees to his chin and pressed his hands against his ears, trying to block out the overwhelming sound of gunfire and screams, his eyes closed shut to avoid seeing the men, both his own and the English, falling around him. It wasn’t real, but the metallic scent of blood was pungent in the air.

It wasn’t real, but the soft thump of the dead and the dying falling to the ground pervaded and overruled all other sounds.

He pressed his lips tightly together, teeth grinding as he tried to ignore the sounds and sensations all around him, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ignore them. They were exactly like back then, they were… they were real.

“Mr. Washington.” A familiar soft voice penetrated the violent noise around him, and gentle hands cupped his cheeks, urging him to look up. “Look at me, Mr. Washington.” She was speaking slowly, calmly, and yet it was firm order. Slowly, he opened his eyes, finding that he was staring into hers. She was not blinking, just holding his gaze, like a steady point in the chaos around him.

“Whatever it is you’re seeing, it’s not real.” O’Byrne was speaking very clearly, and still almost agonizingly slowly. He grasped her hands, holding on to them so tight it must have hurt her, but she not as much as winced. She only held on tighter.

“Come back, Mr. Washington. Come back.” Her insistent clear voice claimed his focus completely, and slowly, the scent of blood and the sounds and sensations of the battlefield disappeared. The blood-soaked ground turned to a clean, smooth hardwood floor, the metallic smell changed to dust, paper and ink, and the sounds of battle became just her voice.

“Are you with me?” she asked softly, gentle hands still holding his face and making him look at her. His breathing somewhat freed, Washington took a deep breath and nodded, just the slightest inclination of his head.

“Good.” Her hands were removed, and he found himself feeling desperately void of support. His breath became troubled again, and the shaking more violent.

Unable to restrain himself, he threw his arms around her, holding her desperately tight with not a thought as to the decency or propriety of his actions. She hesitated for a moment, but then he felt her fingers tracing patterns into his shoulders through the fabric.

“Shh…” she gently hushed as he began shaking as though he was weeping, his breath following the same pattern, though there were no tears, “There’s no danger, you’re safe.”

Neither were entirely sure how long they were like that, but Washington’s breathing slowly returned to normal and the shaking subsided. He felt absolutely tired to the bone, as though he had been fighting, or weeping, for days. Slowly, and not entirely without O’Byrne’s help, he got up.

“I do apologize for this, miss O’Byrne.” He felt obliged to. All formalities and norms demanded it. She simply sighed at him and shook her head.

“Does a wounded man apologize to his doctor for being wounded, and needing treatment?” She asked.

He was struck by the simplicity of that question, and the equally obvious answer. “No.”

“Then don’t.” She said softly, looking as though she wanted to reach out to him. Maybe give his arm a squeeze, offer him a hug, take reassuring action. But she couldn’t, and she knew it. Propriety was too deeply instilled in the man.

“That will… be all. Thank you, O’Byrne.” Returning to a familiar phrase, a familiar ritual of sorts, Washington did not sound entirely recovered yet, and his words were gentle, not entirely dismissive. She forced herself to think nothing of it, and curtsied slightly.

“Very well, sir.”  
And she left.

Her words, however, did not. 

Does a wounded man apologize to his doctor for being wounded?

Of course not. But a wound meant blood, torn flesh, shattered bones. It was caused by bullet, swords, and cannons. He had no wounds. Not anymore. He had scars, many now faded to a dull white that made them almost invisible, but no part of him was bleeding.

His thoughts were churning in his head. Could a wound be more than the eye could see? Inner bleeding could kill a man, even without ever being visible. Could the same happen to the mind? He didn’t know, deep down he wished that he had never needed to think such thoughts, but there was nothing he could do. Just like a crushed organ, there was no cure for his suffering.


	4. Chapter four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> O'Byrne comes clean about her father, and Washington and her overstep yet another line of propriety in the efforts to heal not only his scars, but hers as well.  
> ... Don't worry though, it's all platonic. Couldn't dream of anything else.

Winter had a good grasp on the land, the snow was sparse, but the cold ever-present and gnawing at skin and bark alike. Washington noticed one early morning that the windows were covered with intricate patterns of ice crystals, and his breath turned to mist wherever he walked. It was very early, he knew that, and he was not supposed to be up yet. He had not alerted his servants by ringing the bell in his room, though he should perhaps have done that to give them fair warning. He usually would have, if it weren’t for the fact that he didn’t want to warn them. If he did, O’Byrne would be alerted as well, and he would be unlikely to catch her for a quick word. There was something that had been nagging him for a while.

He found her in his study, busy lighting a fire, which was something that definitely didn’t belong on her list of duties. He found it rather appealing to think that she might be doing all the work in his study, that she didn’t allow anyone else to do it, but the thought was quickly pushed away.  
“Good morning.” He said, unable to keep from smiling in amusement as she practically jumped.

“OH good lord, Mr. Washington, you frightened the living death out of me!” She stood up straight, turning towards him, and he noticed that she had a little patch of soot on her left cheek. Though his fingers itched to grasp his handkerchief and remove that stain on her porcelain skin, he did not. Wouldn’t be proper.

“I do apologize. I did not mean to, I can assure you.” He said, offering her a smile, which she hesitantly returned. For a moment, both of them simply stood there rather awkwardly, finding themselves idle because they were unsure about how to move on, one of them having their morning routine utterly wrecked, the other unused to being up at all at such an hour. That was, until Washington realized exactly that.

“Please do carry on as though I wasn’t here. Don’t let me interrupt.” He moved to walk to his desk, passing her as he did so, and found that he had no problems resuming the sorry excuse for work that he did these days, even with her in the room. And although she seemed hesitant, she did carry on working, glancing up occasionally. It was such a strange thing, to have them working in the same room, without interrupting each other – it was almost a symbiosis, in a way, and each did their best not to disturb the other. That was, until Washington could no longer hold his tongue.

“I was wondering, Miss O’Byrne, what your father’s name and rank was?” He asked the question almost without thinking, only glancing at her briefly over the rim of his glasses. She paused her movements – she had been tending the feeble fire, but now it had caught on. Slowly she stood up again.

“Sergeant Matthew O’Byrne.” She said, then sighed and, almost too quietly to hear, added, “I’m afraid you’re unlikely to find him in your files, though, if you were planning to look.” 

Washington frowned and looked at her again, his gaze lingering this time, “What do you mean?” he asked, watching with increased worry as she licked her lips and hesitantly answered, though seemingly thinking her words through very carefully before she spoke them.

“I… think that is a conversation for another time, sir, if you don’t mind.” She spoke with that distant formality again. It bothered him, though he knew that it shouldn’t, mostly because he had begun to get used to an increased familiarity with her. Something he should, perhaps, not have allowed, but there it was. Clearly, this was a precariously sensitive subject.

“Of course.” He agreed, though still scrutinizing her, “Later, perhaps? When you have better time.”

“I’ll try to find a moment this afternoon, sir.” She agreed, it seemed to him, only reluctantly. Yet, somehow, the fact that she agreed at all seemed like an accomplishment. A mark of trust, perhaps? He couldn’t quite judge it, because, this once, he found it hard to grasp what she was feeling and thinking.

The cold morning and equally chilly midday passed with relative ease. Washington wasn’t exactly busy, he didn’t have much work anymore, but still managed to find something to fill his hours with, even if rearranging the files in his library wasn’t exactly necessary.

It was around 1:30 PM when there was a characteristically gentle knock on the door, and Washington paused what he was doing, pushing one of the files back into place on the shelf. He was standing on a library ladder, and as such did not choose to open the door himself.

“Yes?” He called out, carefully climbing down the steps. He was about halfway down when O’Byrne entered the room, looking mightily hesitant. He forced himself to pretend not to notice her worry.

“I… have time now, sir, if it’s not a bother.” She spoke very carefully, oddly enough, seeming more detached than she’d been for days, “That is, if you still want to know…” she looked up at him in silent inquiry, and he nodded, gesturing towards a chair.

“Will you sit?” He asked, knowing that the answer would probably be no, judging by the way she was rubbing her right hand ring finger again, as she always did when she was keeping up appearances.

“I think I’d rather stand, if it’s all the same to you, sir.” She was standing rather stiffly, though, almost unnoticeably, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Seemingly trying to divert her attention from his questioning gaze, she looked up at the files he’d been fiddling with. She frowned, “You weren’t looking him up, were you?”

“No.” Washington answered immediately, “I rather thought that folly, since you told me it would be futile.”

He watched her carefully as she nodded, catching her gaze just as she seemed to grow steely with determination.

“Right, I had better come clean with you, Mr. Washington.” She paused and, seemingly noticing that she was relentlessly rubbing her right hand ring finger, something she was doing without thinking about it, folded her hands behind her back, “I only ask that you try not to judge me based on what I am about to tell you.”

How could he refuse that? He nodded, now beginning to feel slightly worried about this conversation. What could possibly be so bad about her father’s past that she was convinced it would serve to change his views on her, even to the point of judging her because of it?

“My Ma was from Virginia, but you know that.” Her eyes briefly glanced at him, but darted away when she found that he met her gaze, “My father was… Irish, sir. He came to America as an English soldier. And he fought the war on the English side.”

The room became deadly silent, her words falling like heavy stones, leaving utter stillness in their wake. Washington was speechless, a jumble of emotions surfacing in utter chaos within him as he took in exactly what this meant. That was when he felt the anger. The white-hot senseless rage that made him turn away from her and grasp the edge of his desk, knuckles turning white as he tried to compose himself.

The anger must have been rolling off of him in wave, because it seemed that she sensed it with unwavering clarity, as she usually did.

“I imagine you’ll want my resignation, Mr. Washington.” Her voice was calm, and her tone submissive. It was like a heavy douse of rain, extinguishing the roaring fire within him, “You’ll have it by the end of the week.” Slow, careful steps revealed that she had turned and was headed for the door. A sudden wave of fear caught him in its grasp, and he spun around, calling out to her.

“Caroline!” He hadn’t meant to use her first name, it had simply slipped off his tongue. She stopped in her tracks, not turning around, he sensed, to keep her expression hidden from him. She was as bound by propriety as he was, and perhaps feared the breaking of norms even more than he. Norms and unspoken rules were safety. Her possible reaction was danger.

“I do not wish for your resignation, no.” He kept his voice as gentle as he could, though there was still a hardness to it, the only sign that he was holding his anger in check. But he knew that he needed to. He offered that inhuman rage opposition; fought it, even though he hadn’t thought that he had the strength for it.

Caroline turned around, looking every bit relieved and at the same time extremely uncertain. Washington was perfectly capable of understanding that. His slip of the tongue was hurling them both onto uncertain grounds.

“In that case, I will not resign.” She spoke quietly, shuffling her feet until she realized that she was doing it, then promptly straightened her back and took control of her exterior demeanor.

“I would be glad of that.” He smiled gently, feeling the last remnants of the anger disappearing when she returned that smile, “Truly.”

She nodded, for once, it seemed, deciding that she didn’t know what to say and thus said nothing. She merely turned, this time slower, to leave. Just before her hand touched the door handle, he spoke again.

“And, Caroline.” His use of her first name once again got her full attention. For a moment he found himself strangely fearful that she would not want him to use it – that she would refuse to react to it, but she didn’t.

“Yes?” She looked straight at him over her shoulder, eyes attentive and sparkling.

“Please do not be ashamed of your father.” It was an honest plea. Washington had seen dead men and desperate men on both sides, victory and failure, rage and panic. When it came right down to it, all men were the same, regardless of uniform, “His efforts and honor were no less than any soldier’s, on either side.”


	5. Chapter five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Washington struggles with another side to his curse, one that has sneaked up on him, and one that he himself has scarcely noticed. But Caroline most certainly has.  
> Question is, can she snap him out of it?

Apathy.

It was a slow process, and Washington only noticed it sporadically, ignoring most of the signs. He had a newfound solace in loneliness, silence and solitude becoming his creed. Letters went unanswered, concerns brusquely dismissed, even when it came to Martha. The attacks became almost routine, he got used to them, never to the point where he did not feel like a wreck afterwards, but he accepted them as part of the life he now had to live. And Caroline made them easier. He could sleep again, knowing that she held the house in the same tight grip that he once had. He let go. Let someone else ensure that strict routines were laid and followed, without thought or concern for how that might affect she who was doing so.

Caroline put up with it, for a month’s time, but then even she had had enough. One day, when he was sitting in his study, she knocked on the door and, without waiting for an answer, walked in and closed it behind herself. She looked bordering on angry, a tight-lipped expression marring her otherwise pleasant features. That almost saddened him. He’d only just begun to see through her stern exterior, and here she was, masking that softness again.

Washington took a moment to scan the room, ensuring that there were no one else in the room, no open doors or windows. He couldn’t risk anyone hearing him call her by her first name – it would ruin both of their reputations, even if it was just such a small thing. 

“Caroline. How may I help you?” He had relaxed visibly, he knew that, and he felt it. These days, she was the only one who could make him feel safe. Because she was just as much in control as he had been.

“I’ll be frank with you.” She said, pressing her lips tightly together as though steeling her courage, “You need to stop isolating yourself, Mr. Washington.”

He blinked and looked at her, for once confused. “What do you mean? I am hardly –“

“Yes, you are.” Caroline clearly knew that she was overstepping several lines at once, and possibly most every rule about propriety ever set up, but it was also evident that she did not care in that moment, “You are, George, and you know it.”

The use of his first name, the first time he had heard it come from her lips, was clever. The rage had been rising in him again at her insolent tone and mannerisms, but it disappeared immediately when he heard her voice, however insistently stern it was in that moment, speak his name. He sat down heavily in the nearest chair, hands grasping the armrests as he looked everywhere but at her. He wasn’t honestly sure what she meant, or what she wanted him to do, nor was he certain that he had the strength for it anymore. The truth was…

“I am tired, Caroline. Too tired.”

“No. Don’t say that.” Her sudden, intense dread drew his gaze upwards until he caught her eyes, “Please don’t say that. You don’t know what it means.”  
He could not argue against that. He only knew and recognized the great fatigue that was pervading his every bone and muscle, settled deep in his heart and gut. “That you may say, but I cannot deny this sensation.” He answered, closing his eyes as he leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. He head lithe steps, and turned his head to look at her. He found that Caroline had moved closer, very much closer, and was standing next to him with one hand placed on the crest rail and the other hovering uncertainly above his shoulder.

“Mr. Washington –” She started, but he caught her gaze and sent her an almost pleading look. She understood. “George…” the slim hand hovering above his shoulder was finally lowered, and he reached up to place his own upon it. He did not want her to let go.

Caroline sighed, and George’s eyes caught the little smile that ghosted over her lips. She gently squeezed his shoulder. “You need to start living again. This reclusive behavior isn’t doing anything good for you.” Her words were kept gentle, but it was clear that, in this case, she would not take no for an answer. Pointless and illogical contrariness bubbled up within him.

“And what would you have me do?” His voice was harder than he intended for, and his hand slid back down to his lap, laying idly there as though he did not know what to do with it.

“Anything. Anything at all will be progress.” Caroline spoke softly because, he suspected, she knew him too well to speak harshly now. “Ride out, inspect your land; that would be a start.” The hand on his shoulder did not lift, and slowly his own vacant hand came up to hold it again.

“And then?” He enquired without looking at her.

“I can’t say. Make a routine again.” She hesitated for a moment, perhaps unsure of how far she could push him. When he finally tipped his head upwards to meet her gaze, she continued, “Perhaps you might invite one of your former companions over, I am certain Mr. Hamilton would appreciate an invitation.”

The prospect of that was both enticing and endlessly frightening. What if he had an attack while Alexander Hamilton was with him? How would Caroline be able to salvage that situation? No, no, he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t risk exposing himself. It was too dangerous!

“Not now. Not yet.” Caroline’s calm voice pulled George out of his own panicked thoughts, and he realized that he had been about to start hyperventilating. Fear of fear itself? Apparently so. A dangerous thing indeed.

“What have I turned into?” he asked himself, staring at his hands, which were now laying idly in his lap again. He had lost his zeal, his sureness, his steady hand, and indeed even his self-control seemed to be lacking. This was not who he was. This was not General Washington, nor indeed President Washington. It wasn’t even Mr. Washington, it was just…

George.

The first tear had fallen without him noticing, the second without him willing it, and the third despite his efforts to hold it in. He felt his throat tighten, and managed only to croak, “I am sorry.” Before the onslaught began. He did not see how Caroline gently shook her head at him, nor the pain in her eyes as she looked at him, or the relief that came to her expression when she finally gave in.

George heard the rustle of her skirt as she knelt before him, though he could scarcely see through his tear-blinded eyes, and felt her gentle hands on his own, holding them with all the care in the world. “It’s alright, George. It’s perfectly alright.” Comforting words were spoken, but she never once asked him to cease his tears, just encouraged them. And perhaps this encouragement was the only reason they continued to fall, each droplet taking a weight away from his heart. At some point, she lifted his hands to her lips, gently kissing his knuckles. It was such a small gesture, but it brought with it a sense of something he had been missing for a while now.

The feeling of true safety. Comfortable safety. The kind of safety that had been given, not taken. That had not been forced.

Gently, tears slowing to a halt, he grasped her hand and lifted it to press his lips against her palm.

Later that day, much to the surprise and evident relief of most everyone on the Mount Vernon estate, George Washington rode out on his white horse, keeping watch and barking orders as though he had never stopped.


	6. Chapter six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George starts his journey on the road to recovery, but his wife has a few words to say. How will George's decision to leave Martha out of his suffering end up affecting their relationship?  
> And what, indeed, is the relationship between George and Caroline?

George slowly improved. His riding outs became a daily habit, he began to take up the bookkeeping of the estate again, and on the whole he was getting his life back under control. But carefully. He was constantly keeping up appearances, his jaw always set, his mind constantly busy keeping itself in check. It was exhausting, but he managed. And every night, he slept like a rock, just to get up heavy-limbed with fatigue in the morning.  
He was alive. And more than that, he was living.

Behind it all stood Caroline. She was the one who pulled the threads behind the scenes, ensuring that there was always hot water waiting for him when he returned, keeping dinner times relatively early, controlling schedules, rounds, and the gossiping of the maids, to suit his daily rhythm. She was irreplaceable. He recognized that. Which was why, one evening in the drawing room, he had to ask Martha to repeat herself.

“I was saying that I’m intending to demand O’Byrne’s resignation.” She sounded distant, very detached, in such a manner that he could not read her. He could see nothing beneath her façade, which almost worried him more than her words, though they were shaking his entire world. He frowned, pausing what he was doing – which was incidentally pouring himself a glass of scotch.

“I… fail to see why such a thing should be wished.” He said, careful with how he worded his reply. George Washington was a wise man, and he knew his wife intimately well, and certainly well enough to know that this was almost a battlefield in its own right. Despite the fear rolling through his veins, the dread carried in his blood by the sheer thought of Caroline leaving the house, leaving him, as it were, he stayed calm.

As he turned to look at his wife, he could suddenly see it in her eyes, like a crack in the mask. Her eyes were wet, as though she was on the verge of crying. Like a brick in the head, it hit him right on.

“No… You could not possibly think that I… That we…?” He could not help but look absolutely crestfallen as he hastened to her side, grasping her hands as he knelt by her. She looked away, but he could see the tears falling. “Martha, Martha, look at me love.” When she refused, he gently grasped her chin and turned her head, so that their eyes met.

“I have done no such thing.” He was being honest – though the temptation had presented itself, for both of them he suspected, it had also been ignored, and passed accordingly.

“You can say that.” Martha sounded perfectly miserable, unable to keep her voice from shaking, “But how do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

George almost broke then and there, from seeing his usually stoic and ever so strong wife like this, and from the way her words of distrust stung him. “You know me, my darling. Look at me and tell me whether I am lying.”

She did. She looked right at him, and he looked back, and she began sobbing violently, her whole body convulsing as her diaphragm cramped. George stood up, gently embracing her and sighing deeply as she wrapped her arms around his middle and pressed her face against his chest.

“I’m sorry.” She managed to say, “I’m so very, very sorry, George.”

“Shhh.” He gently hushed her, stroking her hair as she wept in what he knew to be relief, “I understand why you would think it, and I am the one who should be apologizing.” He continued to gently stroke her hair, pressing a kiss to it, “She has been helping me cope, as of late, and I should have told you.”

Martha took a deep breath and sat up straight, wiping the tears from her cheeks with a determined expression, “Yes, you damned well should. And now you’ll tell me what exactly you’ve been coping with.” There was no denying that this was an order, and in spite of her disheveled state, and the one lock of hair fallen from her tight updo, she got her point well enough across.

“I… I have been suffering from Soldier’s Heart.” It took no small amount of hesitance and self-persuasion for George to speak that sentence out loud, but he managed. When he saw the confusion in Martha’s eyes, he sighed, “Perhaps… It is hard for me to speak of it, perhaps it would be better if you spoke with Caroline.”

“Oh, so it’s Caroline now, is it?” Martha sighed deeply, squeezing the one of his hands that was still placed over hers. She did not sound accusing, nor was she angry anymore. Rather, she seemed curious. She shook her head gently at him, even sending him the slightest, tiniest smile as he brushed the stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Very well, I’ll have a talk with her.”

“Thank you.” He whispered, “Thank you, God, that I have such a beautiful, understanding wife.”

She slapped his arm, with something between a laugh and one last echo of a sob, “Shut up, you aggravating, idiotic, frustrating man!”

And then she kissed him.

That night, for the first time in months, Martha and George Washington slept in the same bed.

It became evident the next few days that Martha had spoken to Caroline, mostly because the Housekeep kept a formal distance once more, not as detached as she had been, but definitely acting less familiar with George, something which, eventually, he had to act on.

“Why?” He asked her three days later, as she was just about to leave the room he had just entered. She paused in the doorway, indecisive for a moment before she closed the door and turned to face him.

“Why what?” She replied, only just short of biting at him with her sharp tone.

“Simply, why?” he said, stepping closer to her, tentative as though he was afraid that she would choose to escape through that door, as if she had reason to be afraid, “Why do you avoid me, why have you not spoken my name?” He was finally close enough to lower his voice to a soft plea, “Why, Caroline?”

She sighed and looked down, as though reluctant, or ashamed, to meet his gaze, “I… I can’t honestly say. Your wife spoke to me, and I…” She took a deep, shaky breath, “I suppose I relished the feeling of being alone in caring for you.”

George smiled gently. He could understand that. In fact, he rather suspected that he knew the feeling. He had often felt something that he imagined to be similar when he was in the field, when those around him relied on him, and him alone for orders and support. It had been almost addictive, and he had felt as though it was natural. As though it was the only thing in the world that he could ever want.

“Of, course, there’s something else, too, but… I don’t know.” She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself, almost as though she was ashamed, or deeply saddened, by that which she could not explain.

George couldn’t explain it either, and he doubted that words existed that could even make the most feeble attempt at it. However, he knew what it was that she was trying to say, for he himself had felt it. And so, he merely smiled with a strange mellow sadness, and raised a hand to caress her cheek, something which made her look up at him with an equally melancholic expression.

“I know.” He said, gently brushing a stray strand of flaxen hair behind her ear, “I know.”


	7. Chapter seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George begins to open up a little after nearly a year in total seclusion from the public and his friends, a visit from Alexander Hamilton supports his feeling that he is on the road to recovery. He also realizes that, regardless of him, the world keeps moving. And it hasn't forgotten him.

It took a while, long months of steady recovery, before George was leading a completely steady life again. He still had days where he stayed inside, knowing that he could take less strain than usual, and that was respected, though both Martha and Caroline went to immense lengths to soothe him, even spoil him, on those days. He never objected. How could he reject pampering that was so freely given? No, that would be a bad tactic. Not that he didn’t like to be pampered. He could definitely get used to it.

Which, come to think of it, he actually was. There was peace, he was coming down to earth, their trinity was in balance. He felt safe again, truly safe, without having to strain himself or make an effort to attain that safety.

This was the reason behind the letter he soon enough wrote, inviting Hamilton to come visit Mount Vernon for a few days. He chose Alexander for many reasons, chief of all being that the young man had been his chief of staff during the war, his aid-de-camp. Very few people had witnessed George Washington wounded and bleeding, fewer still had seen or heard him swear in frustration and defeat, but Hamilton was one of them. He was the safest choice.

Alexander Hamilton arrived in early spring, on horseback, which did astound George a little – most people tended to choose carriages to get to Mount Vernon, considering how much luggage was usually required. That being said, he supposed Alexander had always been a tad… different from the rest. That was one of the reasons that he did adore the boy.

Seeing as Alexander counted as a family friend, there was no special pomp and circumstance to mark his arrival, just George standing on the porch with open arms, and Caroline standing just beyond the open front door.

“Mr. Washington, sir!” Alexander hardly managed to get down from his horse, and certainly his feet only barely touched the ground, before he sprinted into George’s open arms.

George smiled. He couldn’t help it. It was a pensive expression, a deeply loving one, the kind of smile where the emotion behind is joyful almost to the point of sorrow. While he was General, and, indeed, when he was President, he had come to regard some of the younger men with which he had worked as his own sons. Alexander was one of them.

And he had missed him. He realized that, and conveyed it in the embrace they shared, so that he needn’t say it later. It was such a precarious thing to say, and it would be unlike him, he knew. He had never been that… verbal. He was best at orders when it came down to it.

“You look well, sir.” Alexander said when they let go of each other. George frowned lightly.

“Were you expecting otherwise?” He asked, tilting his head slightly, one hand still on the younger man’s shoulder as he scrutinized him. Alexander looked slightly guilty, which was more than enough for George to guess the answer before it was given.

“Well… We’ve all been a little worried, I suppose.” The young man pressed his lips together, clearly willing himself not to fidget as George stared down at him. Not that George didn’t stare down at everyone – he had yet to meet a man of equal height. “Since you haven’t written much to anyone, and wouldn’t let us visit you, we were all a little concerned. Franklin wouldn’t stop talking, really, but you know how he is.”

At that, George couldn’t help but chuckle just slightly, a sound that seemed to encourage Alexander. George gently patted his shoulder and gestured for the door, “Yes, I can quite imagine. Now, come inside, my boy. It may be spring, but the weather seems intent to keep a hold of the winter!”

They spent the remainder of the day reminiscing, discussing the state of politics in the Federal City – George absolutely refused to call it ‘Washington’, as it had been named. Alexander, however, consistently used that name. Apparently, President John Adams, who had been George’s Vice President, and Thomas Jefferson, who was Adams’ Vice President, were governing the nation with tough scrutiny and decisiveness. Not that Alexander didn’t express his dislike of Jefferson whenever the chance was there, but even he acknowledged that the man was the best candidate for the Presidency when Adams stepped down. George didn’t particularly like Jefferson either – quite the contrary, in fact, but there it was.

Martha joined them for dinner, but she did not stick around for long after, knowing well enough George’s relations to Alexander were well beyond what she could participate in. She had been part of the war, and an integral one at that, but George had made damned sure that his wife had never set foot on a battlefield, and therein lay the crucial difference.

It was only after settling down in the drawing room, a glass of scotch in both their grasps, that Alexander finally spoke his mind.

“Sir, what’s been the matter?”

His words made George pause what he was doing, the glass raised halfway to his lips.

“What do you mean?” He asked, lowering the glass again without drinking from it.

“I know something’s not been right.” Alexander sighed and placed his glass on the coffee table before him, “We both know you wouldn’t just stop corresponding with everyone like that without something being the matter. Especially not Lafayette.”

Ah. So he had been in contact with Gilbert de Lafayette then. That explained his deep concern.

“That is true, I… I have perhaps not been entirely well.” George’s words were very hesitant. Admitting his shortcoming to Martha had been one thing – it had been necessary – and Caroline had found out on her own. This, now this was different. His eyes flickered in Alexander’s direction, and upon seeing the worried, bordering onto panicked, expression on the boy’s face, he set his jaw and made a decision.

“Alexander, have you heard of Soldier’s Heart?” George raised his eyes to meet Alexander’s gaze, and found that the young man was not looking confused in the least. In fact, he was frowning.

“Yes. Heard of and seen it.” Alexander was downright scrutinizing George at this point, leaning forward in his seat, his face scrunched together with worry, something definitely not befitting of his otherwise still youthful features, “You’re not saying… You’ve been suffering from that, sir?”

“Yes.” The answer left George’s lips almost without him thinking about it – at least it did not seem like he would have to explain himself, which was a relief. Of course, there was one single thing that he had to get straight, “But you are not to tell anyone of this, understand? No one, and that’s an order!”

Alexander looked almost insulted, “What, you think I’d tell the fools in Washington? You think I’d tell Burr, Madison, and, god forbid, Jefferson? Hell no, sir.”

“Good man.” George smiled lightly, taking a sip of his scotch as he leaned back in his chair. Alexander followed his example, though he was still looking a little worried.

“Sir…” He began after a prolonged moment, “If you don’t mind me asking; does Mrs. Washington know about this?”

“She does.” It was strangely pleasing to be able to give that answer without hesitation, “She and my housekeep have been keeping two extraordinarily attentive eyes on me.”

“Your housekeep?” Alexander sounded almost surprised, and endlessly curious. George just nodded, seeing no need to explain any further. It was an unusual arrangement, but hardly scandalous. Alexander took his commander’s silence as an order not to enquire further, and he obeyed without even thinking about it.

The few days that the young man stayed at Mount Vernon were pain free, and passed in complete peacefulness. More than anything, as Alexander rode away from the house, George realized how much he missed many of his old friends and acquaintances. He watched Alexander until he was scarcely anything more than a dot in the distance.

Of course, he caught a cold from standing outside for so long, earning him a scolding from first Martha, then Caroline, and then, god forbid, from both of them at once.

They both called him ‘stupid man’ with the greatest exasperation and affection – something they had taken to doing so often that he was beginning to see it as a compliment by now.


	8. Chapter eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Washington, the most stubborn man ever to live - at least according to Caroline - manages to catch pneumonia. Those of you who know the rudimentary facts of Washington's life know what's coming.

Summer passed, then autumn, harvest was bountiful as ever, and George was there to oversee everything. For the first time since before he was called back in service, as President, George Washington was the active Lord of his household, and he relished it. Power, of whichever sort, and control, was where he flourished best. Where he felt at home. Commanding was what he was made for, what God had intended for him, and who was he to deny such a thing, even in his elder days? As he sat astride his horse on a chilly winter, Thursday the 12th of December, he smiled to himself. He would be barking out orders until the very end of his days, and the thought of it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Right at that moment, he was overseeing expansion of farmland. Workers were draining an area which used to be marshland – or rather, was marshland at the moment. After all, much of his land was bordering the Potomac river, and as a result there was plenty of wetlands. His workers, that was, his slaves, had begun the drudging task of draining them to expand Mount Vernon’s farmland capability. And they could certainly afford to expand. It was with no small degree of pride that George knew his farms to be amongst the most industrious in America, and his whiskey distillery the biggest, without any contestants.

He was quite in the middle of those proud thoughts when there was a great rumble from the skies. A year ago, this would have had him falling from his horse, running away, hyperventilating in fear, and seeing battles long since passed. However, now all that remained of that panic was a slight tremor in his hands. His thoughts turned to safety, an instinct he had managed to assure for himself. Safety was the sound of Martha’s laughter, the curve of Caroline’s smile, a scent of parchment, ink, and leather in his library. A scent that had long put him off, because it reminded him of all that was written in his own journals. Now, he had come to terms with it.

The rain started pouring. George closed his eyes with a deep sight, foreseeing a great fuss when he returned to the house. There was no reason for that, really, he would catch a cold, at worst. Those never lasted the week, and he would always recover fully. Bounce back stronger, as it were.  
Or more like pushed back into action by two very stubborn women.

He didn’t allow the rain, or the cold seeping in through his heavy coat and clothes, leaving him damp throughout and chilled to the bone. He had experienced worse during the war, much worse at Valley Forge, so he was not concerned in the least when he returned to the house after a long day. Caroline was there, of course, waiting for him in the hall. She took his coat, feeling the outer and inner surface with a frown.

“Mr. Washington, you are soaked through and through. Might I suggest you go up and change, at the very least?” Judging by the sternness of her suggestion, it was more akin to an order, but just as he was about to acquiesce, George’s gaze fell on the watch hanging on the wall. It was very nearly dinnertime. Oh no, that would not do at all.

“I appreciate your concern, Miss O’Byrne, however, I should prefer to uphold punctuality. I shall do as you ask after dinner.” His words were equally as insistent as her own, and when he saw the signs of a retort in her eyes, he sent her an urgent look, inclining his head just slightly towards the other people in the hall, a maid, the butler, a few house slaves making their way towards the kitchen. There were others here, and they would surely suspect this and that if the Housekeeper spoke up against him. Caroline evidently knew that too. She sighed and silently relented.

“Very well. I shall have a hot bath ready, sir.” She said, leaving him to go downstairs, no doubt with the intention of hanging his coat to dry.

Martha speared him with a look not unlike that which Caroline had given him moments earlier, but she relented far more easily. He just sat down and pretended not to notice.

That was, until halfway through dessert when he began to shiver.

“George, go upstairs and get warm. You’ll catch your death of cold if you go on much longer like this!” Martha was insistent, and George saw no good reason to disobey her in this matter. This time it was he who relented.

And much good it did him. The morning after, he awoke with a sore throat. Not that it mattered much, his voice was functional, and he had a day’s work ahead of him. A scarf would be necessary, but such a small matter brought no inconvenience to his tasks, one could as easily give orders and make decisions with as without one. No, what did bother him a little was the concerned way that Caroline and Martha, joined in their cause as they were more and more frequently these days, had urged him to stay at home for the day, to rest. He had bluntly refused them. Caroline had left the room saying that if he wanted to catch pneumonia, he was allowed to do so, but she would certainly not be bothered to care for him. George knew she didn’t mean it. All three of them did.

That being said, her words weighed heavier and heavier in his mind as the day progressed. His voice grew steadily weaker, and he more uncomfortable. Even so, he refused to end his work early. He would finish what he started, even if selecting trees for removal was a menial task. It needed to be done, and needs must. He came back in a sorrier state than he had left, but still did not slow his pace. Dinner went as usual, and he, Martha, and Tobias Lear, his secretary, went to the library to read the assembly of newspapers that George kept. Caroline was hovering around them like a distant, discreet, but ever-present shadow.

It was usual for George to read the papers aloud to the two others, selecting of course only the important articles. As the reading progressed, his voice grew steadily more hoarse and pained, and eventually Martha gently placed a hand on his arm.

“George, let Mr. Lear read the rest.” Her gentle voice was one thing he could not argue with. And seeing as she had only just recovered from a cold of her own, which had left her bedridden for a few days, there was no reason to deny her now. The paper was duly handed over. Not much later, both George and Martha decided that the hour had grown too late to continue, and retired to bed. Truth be told, it was Martha who did the deciding, as George was tiring, and feeling unwell. A good night’s rest would surely do him good. It was all he needed.

George woke up at two in the morning, bathed in sweat, shivering as rushes of heat and cold ran through him. Feverishly, he tried to sit up, but immediately set off a violent cough, that had him recoiling back to the warmth of his covers. It woke Martha, too.

“George…” She mumbled, still halfway sleeping, a moment before her head completely cleared, and she bolted upright, “George! Are you alright?” She sounded perfectly frightened for him, and it pained him more than the pressure on his chest. He drew a raspy breath in an attempt to reply, but only managed to set off another fit of coughing.

“Right, that’s it. I am calling for a doctor.” Martha made a move to leave the bed, but George grasped her hand.

“N-no. No, Martha.” He took a deep breath, feeling his lungs struggling to take it in, “No. You have only just recovered yourself. Stay here, get some rest. I’m fine.” He knew how to calm her, knew how to subdue his body’s urges to cough and convulse. He fooled even her. Martha sighed deeply, moving back under the covers.

“Very well. But I am summoning a doctor in the morning, no protests.”

“None at all.”


End file.
